Page 46 of Take Hold of Me

Emilie

“Today’s shootseemed to have gone smoother,” Wills notes as he enjoys a conch fritter.

When he pulled into the restaurant, I was skeptical. Calling it a “restaurant” seems a stretch—more like a detached garage from someone’s house. Shuffling my feet on the ground, I reach my fork into the bowl in front of us and carefully take a fritter. I bite into the delicate morsel and savor its sweet batter and the delicious taste of the conch. I do not care if my eyes rolled into the back of my head. This is divine. I revise my opinion of this fine dining establishment.

After swallowing, I reply, “It did. The alterations were a much better fit, which made the House happy. Yesterday, the clothes were falling off me in odd places. They seemed to correct their issues today.”

He nods and takes another fritter, then asks me about Rose’s shower. “I talked with her again last night. She had a wonderful time and it sounded like so much fun. McKenna did a great job. Oh, they thanked us again for sending the sand.”

“Did she tell you what it was used for?”

I huff a small laugh. “McKenna had all the ladies create a sand replica of Cole. Anatomically correct! And then she had Rose pose…”

He holds up his hand. “Okay, enough. I get the picture.” He guzzles his beer as if to erase my words.

My smile stays for a minute, then fades. Talking about the fun that I missed kills my appetite. I swirl my finger on the outside of my water glass, tracing a condensation droplet to the table. Why did Jaci have to break her leg? Why did Monsieur Price volunteer me to substitute, when I had made it perfectly clear this weekend was off-limits? Abandoning my water glass, I use my fork to pick apart the remnants of a fritter on my plate.

“Hey.”

I respond to his quiet command by raising my eyes to him.

“You did what you had to do. Everyone understands.”

It amazes me how he is able to read my thoughts. “Oui. Rose and McKenna both told me they did. I just wish I did not have to give excuses.” I place my fork on my plate and clasp my hands together on my lap.

“So,” Wills says while spearing the final fritter. “This is only my second magazine shoot. Would you say these were typical?”

His question brings me up short. “Well, for location shots, they were pretty routine. When I am outside, weather and onlookers can wreak havoc sometimes. But not this time. Rio was fun because there were so many other models on set and we got to interact a bit. This shoot was more typical in that it was only me.”

He chews the fritter and I watch, fascinated, as he swallows. I can see the bite making its way down his throat and I remember his heated kisses in the elevator. My eyes stray down to his capable hands, which can both excite with passion and protect me all at the same time. Perhaps Jaci’s accident does have a silver lining, after all.

“Do you enjoy going on shoots?”

Without thought, I respond, “Of course. It is what models do.”

He wipes his mouth with the napkin, crumples it up and tosses it on his plate. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you happy with your career?”

Every molecule in my body seizes, then releases at once. I wipe my hands on my thighs, encased in a Maria Orro sundress. The House insisted I wear it out tonight, in case I am photographed by paparazzi, although I doubt anyone could have followed me to this remote locale. “What? But of course.” I throw my napkin onto my plate.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just—I’ve been watching you,” he clears his throat. “You have a fake smile when you’re in front of the cameras.”

I push back in my chair. “I do not. It is my professional smile, one I perfected looking into my mirror in my bedroom growing up. I would look at photos in magazines, like of Lizzie, and replicate such a look. A cross between a pout and Mona Lisa because that is the look photographers like.”

He grabs my hand, causing a zing to race straight to my core. “Well, I much prefer the real Emilie. The one I saw looking at the starfish family this afternoon.”

“They were so cute.” I smile thinking of the fanciful story I had concocted about the starfish family. How the parents did everything they could to help their babies grow up to be bigger starfish, finding their own paths in the sand yet keeping them close by. Encouraging their offspring to try on different colors to see which one helped them shine the brightest. Like my parents did for me.

A husky voice pulls me away from the cute story. “That’s the one.”

Between us, the air charges. My lips feel dry, so I run my tongue over them and Wills groans, drops my hand and looks away.

He wants me, yet he is fighting. “Wills, what is stopping you? Stopping us?”

His pecs expand on his inhaled breath. His mouth opens as if to respond, but the server comes and clears our table, breaking our moment.

While Wills pays for our dinner at the register—his ass looking mighty fine in his jeans—I kick the dirt underneath my sandals. I need to break through and show him we must see where our relationship could lead us.

When he returns to the table, I stand and say, “I would like to have a nightcap on the beach at the hotel. Join me?”

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